


Rescue

by Rowyna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Blood and Violence, Dalish Elves, Elves, First Love, Gen, Kidnapping, Male Friendship, Qunari, Rescue, Teenagers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowyna/pseuds/Rowyna
Summary: The origin story of Feyndir and Atharil's friendship.(There is not a significant amount of romance in this story.  This is not a romantic tale.)





	Rescue

 "Feyndir!"

 The boy's head snapped up, scattering the yellowed pages of elvhen writing on which he'd been resting.  Bleary-eyed, he groped for his quill and dipped it into a small pot of ink, hunching guiltily over his assignment.  "I'm nearly done, Keeper."

 Maeven grunted, leaning over her young apprentice's shoulder to scrutinize his latest attempt at translation.  "Blessed June, we demand many ropes and wood for making journeys," she read, arching an eyebrow.  "At least you got the Creator's name right.  The rest of it, unfortunately, is a mess."

 Feyndir's thin shoulders slumped.  Sitting cross-legged on a rug before a low table stacked with texts, he cast a miserable glance across the clearing.  On the far side, a group of his peers was practicing archery under the watchful gaze of one of the clan's hunters.

 Maeven laid a sympathetic hand on her Second's head, her fingers smoothing the braids in his dark hair.  "It is a great gift to be a mage, da'len," she reminded him gently.  "It is an honor to lead the People."

 "Ir abelas, hahren.  I will try harder."

 The Keeper smiled.  "Perhaps a small break might improve your focus?  The clan's stores of elfroot and spindleweed are low.  You could --"

 Feyndir was on his feet before she could complete her thought.  "I could gather those for you, Keeper!"

 She chuckled.  "Yes, an excellent idea.  And you should take a friend with you, I think.  Cheerful company can soothe a weary soul."

 

 Feyndir crossed the glade at a jog.  "Anarra!"

 She turned, a ready smile on her wide, freckled face, the sunlight making a halo of her blonde hair.  He felt a familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of her, and swallowed hard.  His feet tried to stumble in their steps.

 Atharil was at her side, as always, and his brow furrowed as he turned his bow casually in Feyndir's direction.  "What do you want?"

 Feyndir scowled.  "I wasn't talking to you." 

 They both had fourteen summers, but Atharil was slightly taller than Feyndir, and his hair was even fairer than Anarra's.  It was so pale it was nearly white, and his eyes shone a faded shade of blue.  The girls their age all openly admired Atharil's odd, ghostly appearance, and for that reason alone Feyndir was glad Anarra was the elf's sister.  Half-sister.  They had different fathers -- Atharil had no father at all, not really.

 "Anarra and I are busy."  The pale elf cocked his head and sneered.  "You should return to your books, mage."

 "You're just jealous that he's learning to read."  Anarra poked a teasing finger into her sibling's ribs.  "What is it, Feyndir?"

 He felt awkward now, with both of them watching him.  "Keeper Maeven needs some plants gathered," he mumbled.  His face felt hot.  "I thought you might like to come along, Anarra." 

 Atharil removed the arrow from his bow and slid it neatly into the quiver on his back.  "Well, that's very rude of you.  Why am I not invited?  I know what elfroot looks like as well as she does."

 Feyndir glared at him.  "I can only bring one person."

 "And why shouldn't that be --"  He stopped abruptly, spotting the hunter who was supervising the practice striding towards them.  Irritation creased the sharp lines of the man's fresh vallaslin.

 "Feyndir, why aren't you with the Keeper?" 

 The young mage tipped his head to his elder.  "Keeper Maeven sent me to gather medicinal herbs, hahren."

 The hunter glanced about, his hands resting lightly on his hips.  "Well, I don't see any growing here, do you?"

 Atharil snickered.

 Feyndir reddened even further.  "No, but --"

 "Then why are you bothering my apprentices?  They require concentration."

 He was beginning to be annoyed by the man's dismissive tone.  "I'm to bring someone with me, hahren."

 The hunter frowned.  "For protection, you mean?  Very well -- Atharil, accompany our Second."

 "What?  No, I meant...."  He gestured helplessly at Anarra, who offered him an apologetic shrug.

 "Don't worry; Atharil is my best student."  The hunter clapped a hand on Feyndir's shoulder.  "You'll be perfectly safe in his care."

 Feyndir  had no wish to be placed in anyone's care, least of all Atharil's.  But he also knew it would be useless to argue.  "As you say," he answered, balling his hands at his sides.

 Atharil smirked.  "You can depend on me, hahren.  I'll look after him."

 "You'd better," the hunter grunted.  "This boy will one day be your Keeper, da'len.  His life is worth ten of yours."

 The grin died away on Atharil's face.  He shouldered his bow and turned stiffly toward the woods, avoiding Feyndir's gaze.  "Come on, mage.  Keep up, if you're able."

  
 The two boys trudged through the forest in silence for a time, each stewing for his own reasons.  Feyndir broke the quiet first.

 "Is it true what they say about you?"

 Atharil cast him a sidelong glance.  "Maybe.  What do they say?"

 "Can you...can you talk to Andruil?"

 "Yes.  So can you -- it's called 'prayer'."

 Feyndir rolled his eyes.  "They say she guides your arrows to their target."

 Atharil stopped walking.  "My arrows hit the target because I practice.  A lot."

 The vehemence in his voice took Feyndir aback.  He held up his hands.  "All right, I believe you.  I just thought that, since she's kind of your, um, patron...."

 Atharil snorted.  "She's my patron when I run faster than the other apprentices.  She's the reason when I pin them in wrestling, or when I find a trail they have lost.  Whenever I best them at anything, it is surely the work of the Huntress."  He plucked a leaf from a nearby bush and crushed it in his palm.

 Feyndir nodded.  "And when you fail?"

 "When I fail, then I'm just a bastard.  Of course."  He cast the crumpled leaf aside.  "What about you, oh great leader?  Do the Creators speak to you?  Do they whisper to you in your dreams, or is it only the voices of demons you hear?"

 Feyndir shrugged.  "I am not much troubled by spirits.  My connection to the Fade is not very strong."

 "Hmph."  Atharil seemed surprised by his honesty.  "Ir abelas, then.  You must find that  disappointing."

 Feyndir laughed.  "I am only disappointed to be Second.  I had hoped to be trained as a scout, or else a hunter like you and Anarra."

 Atharil smiled, and for once there was no malice in it.  "You're better off studying with the Keeper.  Anarra is fascinated by magic, you know."  He walked on again, and Feyndir hurried to catch up. 

 "Is she?"  He tried to sound as if he didn't care much.

 "Mmh.  She had hoped she might turn out to be a mage herself, but she's twelve now...."

 "It's still possible.  My own magic manifested late."

 The corner of Atharil's mouth turned up.  "But by your own admission, you're a weak mage."

 Feyndir frowned.  "That's not exactly what I said."

 They emerged from the shade of the woods beside a wide, shallow stream.  Feyndir could already see the flat, reddish leaves of spindleweed dotting the riverbed.  Plenty of elfroot grew in the area, too, twining amidst the grasses along the riverbank.  He untied an empty sack from his belt and nodded to Atharil.

 "Let's get started."

 Atharil blinked.  "What, me?  I'm just here to protect you, remember?"

 "You cannot be serious."  Feyndir glanced around at the idyllic scene -- birds tittering in the trees, small fish leaping in the sun-dappled water.  "Protect me from what?"

 Atharil gestured at a variety of animal tracks in the soft ground.  "Crazed druffalo, for starters.  August rams.  Nugs."

 Feyndir snorted.  "Enormous, flesh-eating nugs, I suppose?"

 The pale elf gave a lopsided grin.  "Exactly.  So, you go ahead and gather your plants for Keeper Maeven.  I'll keep watch for vicious nugs."

 He was off before Feyndir could complain further, scurrying up the trunk of a birch tree with such speed that it left the young mage in awe.  He wished he might spend his days learning to do likewise, instead of fruitlessly attempting to conjure fire and ice in his palms.  His hands grew softer every day.

 Grumbling, he set about his task.  But the sun was warm on his back, and the fast-moving water cool as it ran over his bare feet, and soon Feyndir felt his mood begin to lift.  He watched Atharil dart about the canopy, noting how he passed from one tree to another without ever shaking a bough.  It was a kind of dance, the way he ran along the branches and caused not a single leaf to tremble.

 When Feyndir's bag was more or less full, he sat down on the riverbank to rest.  Atharil continued his movements in the trees, running along ever narrower branches, the only sign of his exertion a slight flush in his cheeks.  Feyndir envied his grace.

 And then the young elf slipped.  The branch beneath his feet was mossy, and he noticed it too late.  Before Feyndir could even rise to his feet, Atharil was in the river.

 Luckily or not, the water was only knee-deep.  Feyndir waded out to him at once.

 "Are you all right?" he asked, offering the other boy a hand.  Atharil waved it away.

 "Fenedhis," he mumbled, avoiding Feyndir's gaze.  "I'm soaked."  He tried to stand up and winced, nearly falling into the water again.  Feyndir took him by the elbow.

 "That's not necessary.  I'm fine."

 Feyndir could see that wasn't true.  "What's wrong?  Is it your leg?"

 Atharil took a step and winced again, his face turning even paler than usual.  "It's nothing."

 "It's not a weakness to admit you need help, lethallin." 

 Atharil looked at him as if he had two heads.  "Creators, you sound just like the Keeper."

 Feyndir grinned.  "Well, I am her Second.  Whether I like it or not."

 Atharil sighed.  "All right, then.  Help me to shore; my ankle feels like it's on fire."

 The two elves were just hobbling onto the sandy bank when they heard a wagon approaching.  Far off but growing closer by the second, the sound of hooves and creaking axles reached their ears, as well as the voices of several men.  They froze, staring into one another's eyes.

 "Get your staff ready, Feyndir," Atharil hissed.

 Feyndir shook his head, not even bothering to reach for the weapon on his back.  "Keeper Maeven makes me carry it, but...."

 "But you've never actually managed to cast anything with it," Atharil finished for him, his voice grim.  "In that case, you'd better run."

 Feyndir's large eyes grew wider still.  "What about you?"

 "I have arrows.  And unlike your staff, my bow is not just for appearances."

 "But -"

 "By the Dread Wolf, Feyndir!"  The wagon was nearly upon them now; in a moment, it would crest the small rise to the south and come into view.  "Your life is the more valuable one, remember?  Go!"

 Feyndir turned and ran, feeling sick to his stomach.  The shadows of the woods closed protectively about him, but he hadn't gone a hundred paces before he heard shouting.  The men had spotted Atharil.  For a moment Feyndir stood rooted by fear and indecision, looking up at the branches overhead.  Then he began to climb.

 He was nowhere near as skilled at it as Atharil; it felt like an eternity before he reached a suitable height and began making his way back to the river.  Another age passed before he could finally see what was happening below.

 Atharil's aim was true, but the men in the wagon carried thick, wooden shields.  Several of the elf's arrows protruded harmlessly from them by the time the first man reached him.  He swatted the bow from the elf's hand as if it were a toy, and dragged him up from where he crouched by the neck.

 Feyndir had never seen a person lifted in that manner before.  He swayed slightly, grabbing at a nearby branch to steady himself.  The man was enormous, with horns like a goat's spiralling out from either side of his wide forehead.  Atharil looked like a ragdoll in his grip.  Feyndir was certain the man -- or beast, or whatever it was -- would crush his clansman's throat as he watched, but instead the creature chuckled and set him down again.

 "Leave your weapons, little elf," he boomed, holding a sword to Atharil's chest.  "You've just become our prisoner."

 There were three of them.  The other two were shemlen, brawny in their own right but nowhere near as huge as their strange companion.  Feyndir thought the horned man might be a darkspawn, but couldn't fathom why one would be travelling with humans. 

 Once Atharil had been relieved of his quiver, one of the men produced a set of iron cuffs and locked the Dalish boy's wrists together.  He made a joke about the size of the elf's spindly limbs.  Then they lifted Atharil into the back of the wagon and headed off.

 Feyndir climbed down from the tree as quickly as he was able, his legs shaking and his heart beating loudly in his ears.  He collected Atharil's bow and quiver, fastening the latter to his back with trembling fingers.  He knew how to use a bow -- he'd trained at archery before his magic manifested, though he was out of practice now.  It would serve him better than his staff, at any rate.  He left the mage's weapon behind, relieved to be rid of it, and followed after Atharil.

 The men made camp just before nightfall, pulling their wagon well off of the dusty road they'd been travelling since midday.  They built a small fire, and Feyndir watched from the branches of a nearby tree as they tended their horses and roasted a pair of nugs they'd caught along the way.  The horned man offered most of his portion to Atharil, which made the two humans laugh.

 "Look at Talan, trying to fatten up the knife-ear."

 "Elves don't fatten.  And slavers don't care, anyway."

 Talan made a sound that was close to a growl.  "He's a child.  There's no reason to starve him."

 The man who'd spoken first stood up from his place by the fire and squinted over the side of the wagon at Atharil.  "That's a kid?  How can you tell -- all rabbits is short."

 "He's Dalish.  If he were an adult, his face would be marked for his gods."

 The man gave a low whistle.  "He looks like city folk to me, but we did find him out in the wilds.  Could be he's one of them feral elves, all right."

 The man still seated by the fire snorted.  "He's Dalish, all right -- look at his clothes.  But mention his tender years to Septimus, and he's like to try and pay less for him."

 "Hey, kid."  The man by the wagon poked Atharil's leg, and Feyndir saw the elf's eyes flash with hatred.  "Say somethin' elfy."

 Atharil stared at him long and hard.  "Something elfy."

 Talan chuckled.  "Nice one.  He got you there, Branek."

 Branek scowled and reached for something on his belt.  "Smart arse.  Give me a minute, and I'll have him babbling to each and every one of his heathen gods."

 Talan placed a large hand on Branek's arm.  "No, you won't."

 The man by the fire grunted.  "Listen to the Qunari.  Elf ain't worth nuthin' dead."

 Branek lowered his hand reluctantly.  "Tomorrow yer headed for Tevinter, knife-ear.  I hear the magisters up there play with their elves in all kinds of interesting ways."  He leaned in.  "All kinds."

 It felt like hours before the men finally turned in, settling themselves on bedrolls beside the dying fire.  Talan took the first watch, much to Feyndir's disappointment.  The grey-skinned man sat staring into the flames for a time, then pulled a tattered book from between his blankets.  Feyndir was surprised to see the beast-man was literate, and felt suddenly ashamed of his own half-hearted attempts at learning to read.  If even monsterous outlaws could understand written language, then it would hardly do for a future leader of the People to be unable.  He made a mental note to redouble his scholarly efforts when he and Atharil returned home.  If they made it home.

 At last Talan stood up, stretched, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the wagon.  Feyndir's heart leapt in his throat as he realized the moment for action had come.  Likely, the man had only gone to relieve himself, and would return within minutes.  He needed to be quick.

 Atharil was awake and ready, though he had seemed to be sleeping a moment before.  His eyes widened at the sight of Feyndir dropping from the tree and creeping over to the wagon.

 "What are you doing here?" he hissed.  "You should have gone for help, you idiot!"

 Feyndir opened the latches on the back of the wagon and quietly lowered the gate.  "If I had, you'd have been long gone.  The hunters would never have been able to find you again."  He didn't know whether or not that was true, but there was no point thinking about it now.  "Let me help you down."

 It took longer than either of them would have liked.  Atharil's ankle was bruised and distended, and with his hands bound together he was forced to lean heavily on Feyndir.  He bit his lip to keep from crying out as his foot brushed against the ground.

 "This way."  Feyndir tried to lead him toward the trees, but Atharil shook his head.

 "I have a dagger on my thigh.  Beneath my tunic."  He motioned in the direction of the sleeping men.  "We must use it."

 Feyndir paled.  "No!  No, we'll be quiet.  They won't awaken."

 "And when their friend returns?  Beter to have one pursuer than three."  He shrugged off Feyndir's supporting arm and unsheathed the hidden knife, struggling against his restraints.  He offered the weapon to Feyndir, its thin blade gleaming in the firelight.  "Vir assan, lethallin.  Be the arrow that does not waver."

 Feyndir stared at the dagger.  "I'm not a hunter..." he began.  
   
 Atharil's lip curled.  "You think it beneath you?  You think mages don't kill?"

 "Not with blades, no."  But he took the weapon.  Its leather-wrapped handle felt warm where it had laid against Atharil's side.

 "Ir abelas.  I would do it myself, were I not injured."

 Feyndir met his gaze.  "You have done so before?"

 "I...."  Atharil reddened.  
   
 "That's what I thought."

  
 Feyndir approached Branek first, placing each bare foot mindfully so as not to awaken the man.  _Mother Mythal, help me. _He crouched down, watching the shemlen's broad chest rise and fall evenly beneath his tattered blankets.  Then, quickly, before he could lose his nerve, he slid the dagger across the man's throat.__

____

____

 It should have been a clean death, but it was not.  Feyndir should have pressed the blade harder, or made the cut wider.  Branek should have died silently, but instead he sat bolt upright.  Blood fountained from his neck, his eyes bulged, and his throat gurgled as he tried in vain to shout for help.  Feyndir fell over backwards, the dagger dropping from his hand.  For several seconds he and the dying man stared at one another, the elf transfixed by the horror of his deed.  Then the man beside Branek stirred.

____

____

 Panicked, Feyndir grabbed the dagger again and threw himself on the shemlen, burying Atharil's blade in the man's chest.  Dimly, he was aware that he shouted something as he did so; not words, but an unintelligible cry of rage and terror.  The blade in his hands rose and fell over and over, carving the man's torso into a stew of hot blood and tissue, and then strong hands were pulling him back.  The dagger, wrested easily from his slippery grip, fell blood-covered into the dirt.

____

____

 "Take it easy there, kid.  Breathe."  The Qunari held Feyndir's arms pinned with one huge hand.  With the other, he pointed a thick finger at Atharil.  The pale elf was still standing, mouth slightly agape, where Feyndir had left him.  "Don't you try anything, either."

____

____

 "Na din'an sahlin!"  Feyndir twisted uselessly in Talan's hold.

____

____

 "Yeah, I don't speak...that," he grunted, "and I bet you're not familiar with Qunlat, either.  So let's both stick with the common tongue.  Deal?"

____

____

 The scene in front of Feyndir swayed, and Talan's voice seemed distant.  He closed his eyes as his legs tried to buckle beneath him.  "Deal."

____

____

 Cautiously, the Qunari released him.  "Sit down and put your head between your legs," he ordered.  "It'll keep you from fainting."

____

____

 Feyndir nodded, lowering himself to the ground without argument.  He couldn't understand what was happening, why the horned man was being so... _polite _.  Friendly, even.__

_____ _

_____ _

 "I knew someone was following us," Talan continued, oblivious to his confusion.  "You two should have waited until Branek was on watch to make your move, though.  He was the weak link."  He produced a key from a pouch on his belt and held it up for Atharil to see.  "If I unshackle you, are you going to behave yourself?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil nodded dumbly, holding out his hands.  His pupils were wide, and he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from the bodies of the men Feyndir had just killed.  With a shock, Feyndir realized the apprentice hunter felt nearly as traumatized by the carnage as he did.  His entire body begin to tremble at the thought, and he ducked his head down as Talan had instructed.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Why are you helping us?"  Atharil's voice, at least, sounded strong and clear.

_____ _

_____ _

 There was a clink as Talan opened the cuffs.  "I don't know.  I was getting tired of those pricks, I guess.  We were supposed to be a merc band, but all they ever wanted to do was kidnap peasants and sell them into slavery.  I may be Tal-Vashoth now, but that doesn't mean I don't still hate Vints.  You have to have some kind of standards, right?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir lifted his head cautiously.  "What's a Tal-Vashoth?

_____ _

_____ _

 The grey man chuckled.  He was strangely cheerful for someone who'd just lost his companions.  "Don't worry about it.  But if anyone ever offers to introduce you to the Qun, you introduce them to that handy dagger of yours, okay?"

_____ _

_____ _

 The words, though spoken kindly, were too much.  Feyndir clapped a hand against his mouth, but only succeded in retching into it.  It felt hot, and it stank, and the world dimmed again.  This time, he allowed the darkness to swallow him.

_____ _

_____ _

  
 He awoke beneath a blanket, feeling exhausted, his tunic stiffening with dried blood and his nose still assaulted by the sweet stench of his own vomit.  Turning his head, he saw Atharil crouching over the corpses of the two humans.

_____ _

_____ _

 "What're you doing?"  His voice sounded thin in his own ears.

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil snapped a small leather pouch from about the nameless man's neck.  "Looting our enemies.  Talan has gone."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir rose up on one elbow and looked around.  The Qunari must have taken the wagon, for it, too, was nowhere to be seen.

_____ _

_____ _

 "We have a choice to make."  Atharil untied the coarse, green kerchief from about his neck and spread it neatly on the ground.  He began to pile the dead men's posessions in the center of it -- the pouch, a few coins, a small metal flask, a worn gold ring.  Feyndir wished he hadn't seen any of it.

_____ _

_____ _

 "A choice?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Whether to start for home now, or wait until daybreak.  There are animals that hunt at night, especially wolves.  But when day comes, the roads will fill with people."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir sighed.  "I would prefer hungry wolves over more shemlen, I think."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Agreed."  Atharil brought the corners of the kerchief together to make a sack, and fastened it to his belt.  "Find me a walking stick, then."

_____ _

_____ _

   
 They spoke little as they followed the wagon tracks back the way the kidnappers had come.  Atharil hobbled along, his brow furrowed with the effort of disguising the great pain his swollen ankle caused him.  Feyndir walked slowly along beside him, feeling polluted in both body and spirit.  By the time they arrived back at the stream where Atharil had been captured, the sky was beginning to lighten. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Thank the Creators."  Atharil unfastened his belt and peeled off his tunic and shirt, limping out into the fast-flowing waters in just his leggings.  When he reached the center of the stream he sat down, the water covering him up to his chest, and ducked his head beneath the surface.  He came up gasping with the cold, grinning through chattering teeth, and motioned for Feyndir to join him.

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir didn't bother to undress.  He walked out into the familiar river fully clothed, staring dully as the water began to swirl light orange around him.  Blood seeped from his tunic;  the worst of it might wash away, but the fabric would always be stained.  He felt a lump rising in his throat.

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil stood up, no longer smiling.  "Take it off," he commanded, but Feyndir's fingers fumbled at the straps.  The young hunter waded over to him, lifting the garment over Feyndir's head with an unexpected gentleness.  He carried it a few feet downstream before kneeling and rubbing it together beneath the water.  Feyndir shivered as the stream turned red with his efforts. 

_____ _

_____ _

 When the tunic was as clean as it would ever be, Atharil hung it from a low branch to dry.  Feyndir waded over to the opposite shore, located his staff and the bag of herbs still lying where he'd left them the previous day, and sat down.

_____ _

_____ _

 "That's my tunic now," Atharil announced, easing himself down nearby.  "We'll trade."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You don't have to --"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I do, Feyndir.  It was my responsibility to keep you safe, and I failed."  He hung his head, wet hair dripping onto his lap.  "I apologize."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir shook his head.  "You told me to run.  You stayed and fought, even though those bandits might have killed you."

_____ _

_____ _

 A smile tugged at the corner of Atharil's mouth.  "I would have run, too, if I hadn't twisted my ankle trying to show off."

_____ _

_____ _

 It hadn't occurred to Feyndir that the hunter might consider him worthy of impressing.  The idea flattered him.  "I wish I could move through the trees with such ease."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil shrugged.  "Anyone can learn to do it.  I'll practice with you, if you like."  He looked down at his ankle.  "Once I can walk again, that is.  It may be a while."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir studied the injury.  The joint was so swollen it appeared boneless, and the entire area was purple.  He considered for a few moments, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. 

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil noticed his indecision.  "What is it?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir held up his hands and examined his palms.  "I might be able to help, but... but I'm not sure."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Well, we do have a whole bag of elfroot and spindleweed now.  I don't suppose you've learned anything about making poultices?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I have, actually."  Feyndir smiled.  "But I'd like to try something else, first."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil's brows knitted together.  "I don't know what you are...oh.  Oh."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Should I make the attempt?"  He clasped his hands together, interlocking his long fingers.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Perhaps that's not the best idea...."  Atharil shifted away, his eyes widening.  "I thought you weren't very good at magic?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm not."  Feyndir closed his eyes.  "But sometimes, if I really concentrate...."

_____ _

_____ _

 He reached out with his will, searching for the tenuous connection that so often eluded him.  The Fade was all around, vibrating just beyond his reach, restrained.  Frowning, he pressed harder.

_____ _

_____ _

 "What will you --"  Atharil's voice sounded muffled, as though he spoke from behind a curtain.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Shhh."  Feyndir could feel a comfortable heat spreading outward from the center of his hands toward his fingertips.  He let it gather for a few more seconds, and then opened his eyes and smiled.  His hands glowed a soft orange, lit from within.

_____ _

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 "Keep away with those things!"  Atharil squirmed, trying to move beyond Feyndir's reach.

_____ _

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 "Don't be scared."  He reached over and laid his hands on the boy's ankle, one on either side of his foot. 

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 "I am NOT...huh."  Atharil suddenly stopped pulling away.  "That's actually kind of nice.  For magic, I mean."

_____ _

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 Feyndir couldn't say much without breaking his concentration, so he merely grunted in reply.  He kept his hands in place until the last of the light faded from them, then released Atharil with an exhausted sigh.

_____ _

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 "It looks better.  I think it worked!"  Atharil rotated the joint cautiously, and drew in a sharp breath.  "It still hurts some, though."

_____ _

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 Feyndir glanced tiredly at the effects of his efforts.  The swelling had diminished and the bruises faded, but neither was completely healed.  He lay back on the riverbank and shut his eyes.

_____ _

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 "I'll give it another try in a few minutes.  Just let me gather my strength."

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 "Are you all right?"  Atharil sounded concerned. 

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 Feyndir managed a weak smile.  "I feel drained, but I will be fine."

_____ _

_____ _

 They sat in silence for a few minutes, Atharil watching the blood-stained tunic sway in the morning breeze.

_____ _

_____ _

 "They'll want to hear the story," he said finally.  "Not just the Keeper, but everyone.  They'll ask you to recount it around the campfire for days to come."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir, his arms thrown across his face, groaned.  "I wish I might never speak of it.  I wish I could forget what happened, forget their faces...."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You did what needed doing, Feyndir."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Maybe."

_____ _

_____ _

 "It was brave."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir parted his arms and peered out.  "I don't feel brave," he said flatly.  "I just feel sick."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil cocked his head to one side, thoughtful.  "We could tell them I did it.  Keep the rest of the story the same, but tell the clan I'm the one who killed the shemlen."

_____ _

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 "I cannot ask you to do that."

_____ _

_____ _

 "To take credit for saving us, you mean?"  He nodded.  "I agree, it would not be fair."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir was silent a moment.  "Very well," he agreed finally.  "Ma serannas, lethallin."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I want to tell my sister the truth, though."  Atharil cast him a sidelong look.  "I don't like to be dishonest with her."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I understand."  Feyndir hesitated.  "But...."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil's eyes sparkled.  "Of course, Anarra needn't hear every grim detail.  I might omit the part where you puked and fainted."

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil was true to his word.  When the two elves stumbled into camp later that morning, Atharil clad in Feyndir's bloodied tunic, no one doubted their tale of a young hunter rescuing Clan Lutharra's inexperienced Second from the evil shemlen and their strange Qunari companion.  Atharil was pestered for details of his 'fight', and provided them using expressive language and exaggerated motions, but only after he was certain Feyndir was out of sight and earshot.  And much later, after the evening meal was eaten and the elders were telling the smaller children bedtime stories, Anarra made her way over to where Feyndir was seated on a log before the communal fire.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Atharil told me," she said simply, sitting down beside him.  "Thank you for going after him, Feyndir.  And for...for everything."

_____ _

_____ _

 He nodded, unable to speak.  She'd never joined him at the fireside before, never sought out his company.  She smelled like honeysuckle.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Some people think Atharil never needs help, that Andruil will look after him.  But Andruil wasn't there last night -- you were." 

_____ _

_____ _

 An memory of rage flashed through Feyndir's mind, all-consuming and terrifying.  He blinked hard, pushing it away.

_____ _

_____ _

 Anarra continued.  "Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm glad he and you are friends now."  She looked away, her eyes over-bright.  "Maybe he won't feel so lonely anymore."

_____ _

_____ _

 Before Feyndir could respond she stood up, then bent and kissed him lightly on the cheek.  One hand rested on his shoulder.  "Good night, Feyndir."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Sleep well, Anarra."  He had just time to get the words out and then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness toward her family's aravel.  His face felt hot, and he knew he must be blushing as he met Atharil's gaze across the fire.  The young hunter only nodded, though one corner of his mouth turned upward in what might have been a smirk.  Then he, too, stood up and followed his sister into the night.


End file.
